“They ought to be usin’ their men to fight an’ not be after keepin’ a whole company here as guards,” O’Malley grumbled.
“After the show you put on, they need a company,” Stan snapped. “If we’d been good boys, they might have left us with a couple of guards.”
“Who started the fuss?” O’Malley demanded.
“I stumbled, but that was just to slow down the procession,” Stan answered. “I’ll admit it was a mistake.”
“We’d better be doing some heavy thinking,” Allison warned. “If we don’t we’ll spend the rest of this campaign in a prison camp.”
There was no time for thinking and very little chance to talk. The Yanks were hustled out to the runways and loaded into a shaky and battered Fiat 20, two-engine bomber. They were escorted by the two squads of guards who stood around with rifles at ready until the plane started down the runway.
Stan was squeezed in between O’Malley and Allison. The space inside the bomber was very limited, for it was not intended as a passenger plane. Besides the pilot and copilot, two men armed with pistols sat in the cramped quarters. The Italians had very thoughtfully provided their prisoners with parachutes. One of the guards spoke English and was not unwilling to talk. Stan singled him out at once.
“I have been in America,” the guard said in a friendly fashion.
“What city?” Stan asked.
“New York. I stay one year.”